Il Libretto
by x-navatariel-x
Summary: The young man certainly did intrude on the Daroga's privacy, and the Persian insisted he did not know the whole story. Yet still the young man wanted to know. The whole is known, but only to one. The whole is revealed, but only in Erik's mind...
1. Prologue

**Il Libretto **

**--Prologue**

'_Moonlight weighs heavy on the lonely mind, daroga.' _

_He shook his head but could not rid it of the memory. _

'_It seems…at times…the light burdens my very shoulders.'_

"_Monsieur Gaston is still at the gates…" The young woman with the ribbon about her waist approached him timidly. It was a soft shade of pink, that ribbon; flowing gently behind her, falling just above the hem of her white dress. _

_So should he allow the man into his home? This stranger, this intrusive stranger, would burden his shoulders with the past. Yes._

"_How long has he waited, now?" He asked, the sweetness of the French words having long since turned sour on his tongue. Perhaps he could have avoided the taste. Perhaps he should have tried to retire in Britain, as had been suggested so many years ago; really more a joke than sincere advice. _

'_Let the old man retire in lavish Britain…to leave me again, Daroga?' Erik had glanced up at him as he sat, lounged, on the front of the little boat. _

_The little boat on the lake. _

_Erik had smiled, then, laughed almost, for he had known Kasra as well. _

_And Kasra knew well what might come about should he depart._

_For Kasra had known Erik as well._

"…_Three weeks, now, Monsieur Soheil," Little Madeline replied, clasping her hands in front of her and leaning forward on the balls of her feet._

_Three weeks._

_He sat curled in the curve of the windowsill, the position he had been in almost all morning. The curve of the windowsill like the curve in the ribbon about little Madeline's waist. The curve of fabric. The curve in ripples of water. Like the waters on the lake._

_Sitting in the curve of the windowsill almost all morning because he was too weak to move anywhere else. And due to the fact this Monsieur at the gates needed to be observed. Observed incase the burden would be thrust upon Kasra's shoulders once again. Observed. _

_The thought reminded him. _

_With pale and frail hands, _too_ frail for his age, Kasra drew back the dark curtains and then unraveled the wooden shutters. Dust dispersed into the air, twirling, spinning in an imaginary breeze. _

_Yes. _

_There he was. That man. He was bent over a notepad, hat hiding his face as he scrawled something along the crimpled paper. Monsieur Leroux paused in his writing and scratched the back of his head thoughtfully before looking up at the window. His rather young face lightened and he waved his ink pen high in the air at an attempt to get Kasra's attention, or perhaps, to keep it. Kasra had seen much more interesting things than a man wailing a writing utensil above his head. _

_Slowly, almost resignedly, Kasra closed the blinds, and in turn, the curtains. Turning his head to little Madeline (who was still waiting on her petite, impatient feet) he said,_

"_Very well…show him in. But, darling…" _

_She paused in her scurry, twirling back towards him, the pink ribbon rippling as it embraced the sudden breeze. _

"_Yes, Monsieur Soheil?" Madeline asked, her long eyelashes blinking to protect her eyes from the sudden dimness. Nonetheless, her little smile remained eager on her little pink lips. Pink lips, pink ribbon._

"_Tell him…be sure he knows…I only know half of the story he wishes to hear." Little Madeline nodded her head; blonde curls bouncing and seeming to mirror what little sunbeams graced the room. _

_Kasra turned his head back toward the closed windows before him. What lay behind the curtains; he knew. And yet he hesitated. A childish fear perhaps, to open the blinds. The doors. _

_The blinds and doors of memories. _

_Of pasts. _

_The floorboard creaked, it's cry clinging loosely to the air. Kasra looked back to find little Madeline had taken a sheepish step forward, her eyes slowing rising and falling from the floor to his face. A charming innocent look swam in her eyes. _

"…_Monsieur Soheil…" She started shyly, keeping her gaze traveling from foot to face. "…Bonbon? -- S'il vous plait." Little Madeline added quickly. _

_It felt as though small warmth from the mirrored sunbeams gave color to his pale lips. Kasra smiled and leaned towards the desk nearby. Reaching into the drawer, he retrieved several small peppermints, wrapped in crinkled wax paper. _

"_Mais certainement, mon peu cher," He replied as little Madeline hurried up to him and opened her hands. She popped one into her mouth and gave another smile, which seemed to multiply the sunrays. _

"_Merci!" She giggled, giving a brief and wobbly curtsey before bustling back out the door. Silence crept in an idle pace, moments passed. Doors closing, opening. Locks given keys. _

"…_Monsieur Gaston Leroux," Kasra rehearsed under his breath. "I do not know the whole story of which you wish to hear…"_

**_To be continued in Chapter One: Attic Candles_**

**_Author's Note: _**

Thanks for reading the prologue! Please review! I have other stories under merchant-of-venice. The rest of "Il Libretto" (except for the epilogue) will be in Erik's perspective. For any of you Neopets people, I'm operaghost, and also have "Il Libretto" on my pet's page, littlejammes

Thanks again!

Emmie


	2. Chapter One: Attic Candles

**Chapter One: Attic Candles**

**  
**Oncle.

He closed it again.

I don't know why he does it.

I like the crackle of the wind. It makes me think, and wonder, who else could be sitting as I am, on the sill, watching carriages pull up to the wide stairs outside. Who else might be in an attic. And I wonder if they can hear the music.  
The music the wind makes, like the sea.

Oncle says the sea makes the most beautiful music. Like the Opera. Oncle says the Opera has Heaven's music.

But I'm not sure I like Heaven. Oncle, in his stories, makes Heaven a lovely place…all music and dancing rainbows, rainbows…colors...that seem to dance from my gaze.

Almost tauntingly.

And it angers me.

I live in a world of gray. Of black. And I can't understand why.

Heaven…when Tante speaks of it she says its all white and silent. I cannot imagine a silent Heaven. Music is from Heaven…Oncle's kind of Heaven.

I hope.

I like to think of it that way.

"But the light…" I mumbled as Oncle came to close the window.

"What light, Neveu?" Oncle asked with hesitation and a sigh. A simple, push of his hand extinguished it.

"…The music, Oncle…" I said, watching my hands in my lap. I liked the folds the skin made, like drawings. Oncle said Père had hands like mine. I'd like to think of that. But Oncle hardly speaks of Père. He tells me much of Mamman. But even as I thought of the two who loved me, I felt foolish, because I knew Oncle thought I sounded so.

"The music brings the light."

"Erik…" Oncle sighed again. "…do not speak nonsense…"

"Don't lock it!" I demanded softly, though my voice expressed my anger.

Oncle looked to me, mildly surprised by my sudden, and swift, temper.

"You will not speak to me so, Erik."

I jumped quickly from his hand, which reached in what would be a light smack. Though it was too dark to see clearly, I was rather sure his lips were pursing in agitation, and his left eyebrow twitching. I liked to watch people's faces. The little things they'd do when they felt a certain way. And I could tell when Oncle was angry. I could tell when he was lying.

That's why I never look at him when he comes up to tell me stories.

I also knew Oncle did little about his emotions. Or thoughts. Or opinions. That's why he lets Tante keep me in an attic when she pleases. All children aren't sent to attics. I know because I asked Oncle.

And I can tell when he lies.

I heard his footsteps creaking away in the darkness, heading toward the real light, behind the attic door. I saw a glimpse of his dress shoes as he descended the steps.

"Please…unlock the window…" I pleaded shyly, more humbly, rising to my feet and following after him.

I heard Oncle stop.

I reached out my hand and lightly caught the end of his tailcoat in my hand.

Oncle was still. Rigid. It seemed an eternity he stood there. An eternity I felt the wind grasp my heart in a cold fury. I didn't understand why he acted so strangely…but at the same time, it felt like I did. In some irretrievable dream. Just beyond…where my mind's hands could reach.

Or wanted to.

"…Neveu…I'll come up later, if I can."

Another sigh. Exasperation, this time.

Slowly, almost cautiously, he lowered his hand and put it about my own, steadily unclenching my fists and freeing his tailcoat as he said,

"I'll come up later, Neveu…if I can. Then I'll tell you…a story…one you haven't heard." He bargained but did not turn to face me. "Stay in the attic. There are people downstairs."

There were people downstairs. I had seen the carriages.

"Is Tante Adèle having a party?" I asked, going back to the window and placing a hand on the pane.

Oncle did not reply, he was descending the little steps; he had opened the door and closed it. His footsteps echoed from the little hallway, and I heard the other door open.

"Niklas! There you are! Did you find the candles?"

A voice came. A stranger. As the light gently trickled up the stairs, dragging itself through the dark, then suffocating as the door closed. I stood with mixed emotions as I watched the light slowly die and shrivel. Into nothing.

"No, they were not up there." Oncle's reply.

"I thought it strange!" One of the guests laughed. "A man tucking candles away in an attic!"

"_Talking_ candles! Who was talking, Niklas?" A woman's voice. The accent was a new kind of note.

"The wind," I could almost see Oncle's smile. "The window was open."

"Talking wind!" More laughter and the music receded, like a sea tide. It receded in a gathering of shuffling feet, clattering glasses. Soft mutterings. Maybe clinking jewelry.

I had only seen jewelry a few times, in books when I would sneak into the library, or when Tante Addie would wear it. She probably put it on before going to talk and laugh with the people downstairs.

Or the Opera.

Oncle said Heaven's music is played at the Opera, while gentlemen sit in theatre boxes lined with red and gold.

It was a place I liked to imagine when up in the attic. What kind of people would be there. Why I would be there. What I would be doing. I always think of the Opera as a place where all the notes in my head would play. And it would be a relief that my head was finally clear, but not sad, because everyone would hear it. It would be there forever, in peoples' ears, even after they left. My music would be perfect.

Not vulgar, like when Oncle plays the violin.

I got angry when he played for me, and I felt very awful afterwards. It wasn't Oncle I was mad at. Something…I couldn't get out. The notes were all wrong, in what he was playing…they should have been different. I stayed up all night in the attic trying to find the way it _should_ have been. Tante doesn't give me paper when I'm being punished, and it used to bother me. Until Oncle accidentally taught me how to carve.

Oh, if Tante Addie saw all the carvings on the opposite sides of the floorboards, and the backside of the shutters, she would be so angry. But that would make me laugh, to see her so! Her precious wood now nothing but diagrams and notes. Oncle has plenty of knives, he did not suspect when one went missing.

At least I hope he did not.

But I felt awful that night after Oncle played for me, because I was frustrated. I couldn't fix the notes. Oncle had been kind to play music for me, but I was angry and I let my temper go. Oncle probably didn't know the music was wrong.

Oncle and Tante are deaf. And let them be. I don't want them to hear the music anyway.

I am an unlit candle in the attic.

Unlit because they won't allow me to be bright.

I did something stupid. I did something very stupid, and that is why I am in the attic. Oncle had bought a piano at an auction, and I left the East Wing and entered the vestibule so I might see it.

I had been quiet and unseen. Oncle said I could go anywhere I wished if I could make others deaf to my sounds and blind to my movements, even though Tante Addie forbid me to leave the East Wing. She said it had been built for me, when they heard about Mamman's death. So I must stay there. But I only left a few times before, at midnight, to steal some books from the library. And I wouldn't have been caught if my mask hadn't stood out against the shadows; and stupidly, I touched one of the keys.

One of the ivory white keys. It's tone now forever in my mind.

I had very easily picked the lock of the East Wing door.

Simplistically fascinating.

I had opened the door and left the East Wing, crept down the hall.

I watched them movie it in. Vast mahogany wood, pure white keys. The dark ones I didn't like. They stood out like bugs on a winter windowsill. The vestibule emptied as the men went to get the bench for it. Or perhaps they went to take a break.

Empty.   
The portraits on the walls seemed to look at me, interested in another taboo being broken. I had never seen a piano before. I wandered down the wide staircase, almost in a daze. The black, velvet carpet smooth yet sharp under my feet. My hands were clasped tightly together, fearing lest I should touch something and leave a mark or make a sound. Or maybe in excitement of such a strange new beauty.

Be deaf to ears and blind to eyes.

Like shadows. Or a ghost.

But my wonder only led to folly. I ran my fingers across the clean keys. Across the vast wood. Such a lovely sight.

I saw rainbows in the sunbeams again.

They twirled and danced across the ivory. For a moment, I was looking through an open window, and had found color. The black and gray mere shadows of a nightmarish monster.

My finger fell gently on one key.

I pressed it down. Smooth and cold.

The tone brought forth made the rainbows tremble.

Suddenly, the window closed.

Gray and black ensnared me.

Oncle grabbed me roughly by the shoulders and dragged me by my arm up the stairs. Stumbling after him, rather dumbfounded, I glanced over my shoulder to see the servants staring up at me, mouths gaping.

"Damn you, boy!" Oncle mumbled as he harshly flung me from him.

In the attic.

He threatened to tell Tante Addie. I told him I didn't care. I told him I had kept his rules; I had been blind to eyes and deaf to ears-

"-But not enough so, Neveu," Oncle had cut in, panting still from his rush up the stairs. He was rather old. Most of his hair gray or white, long enough to tickle his stubble but short enough to reach for his shoulders and not touch them. He leaned on the wall a moment, coughing and taking raspy breaths.

"The piano is for the people coming tonight," He said, eventually. "Not for you. Stay in the attic." And before I could give a smart remark he slammed the door and I heard the lock.

He did tell Tante Addie, and I know he regretted it. She was never silent about things. I heard them arguing from the attic. Something about how Oncle didn't want her to fire certain servants.

Tante had many ways to punish people. I was usually beaten, but the words were worse. The words my brain couldn't vomit out, they just stayed inside. I don't like to think about inside.

Inside, it hurts. I close my eyes at night and feel it. Pain, when the bruises are healed. Pain, when the scratches are scars. _Pain_, when nothing is wrong. _Pain_, when things seem at peace. Pain worst of all…

…when it's only a memory.

To come back in the night.  
When my mind is not busy.

When I'm not distracted from what's inside.

There's nothing that saves me from that nightmare.

Because it isn't a nightmare.

When Tante doesn't have words, she watches me. Watches me, watches me! I can barely stand it. There is something I need to grasp, some reason I need to understand why I am treated this way. There must be a reason.

Tante sits. She sits and stares at me. Silently, her knuckles turn white as she kneads the skirt in her lap.

That night after I'd seen the piano Tante Addie came in. She sat. And kneaded the fabric in her lap. Watching me. I watched her, too, instead of laying down on the pallet and trying to hear the wind outside. Trying to ignore her. But thoughts had been coming into my mind. Things I'd never considered before, yet they made sense. Thoughts and questions that I asked Tante Addie that night. Instead of shrinking under her gaze, I sat straight up on my pallet and watched her.

"Why do you stare at me so?"

Her grip on the fabric tightened at the crisp sound of my voice. I had broken the silence. After a moment she took in a raspy breath. It felt as if the cold sea sprays were clasping my heart. It seemed as though I had broken more than silence. That I had opened a door to a room which I did not want to enter.

To Be Continued In Chapter Two


End file.
